


Living Under Glass

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BDSM, Crack, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-07
Updated: 2008-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Outtake from Fi and Andy's "Hookerverse" series, with all the warnings that alone entails.





	Living Under Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

  
Author's notes: I usually like to blame most fic-related things on Andy, with varying degrees of accuracy. But this one? This is ACTUALLY her fault. For real. But she was kind enough to beta (and Fi was kind enough to put in a word or two of advice), so. XD  


* * *

Another bright morning dawned as Sam burrowed deeper under the thin, filthy blanket that was stretched alarmingly tightly across the wobbly cot upon which he'd just woke. He attempted to postpone his waking just a few moments longer, to deny that it had ever happened, but as usual, both his eyes mutinied and let the sunshine in. He squinted, pressing his palms to his eyes for a moment as completely unfiltered sunlight beat down upon his dishevelled frame.

 

 

He should have been used to this by now, he thought. The sensation of waking up alone in a strange bed should have been nothing new; even if he wasn't alone, the general idea should have lost its novelty long ago. If memory served him correctly, he'd snap back what had happened and how he'd got himself into this particular situation rather soon after waking, and usually in excruciating detail. So he was bemused...but not particularly worried.

 

 

He didn't go on these sorts of assignments terribly often, but the management did like to be accommodating when and where possible. Thus, if the money was right, off Sam went for a full night. As word of his fame had spread in certain circles, Sam became quite sought-after by a more...discriminating subset of clientele.

 

 

It wasn't as though Sam particularly enjoyed this sort of service; rather, it was that he was so very good at dissociating himself from what was going on, memorising his lines and saying them perfectly that everyone adored him just the same. He was a very good actor, that's what it came down to...and truthfully, most of clients didn't really care whether he meant it or not. Artifice was the answer, and that was something Sam was equipped to provide them with in spades.

 

 

Some other colleagues might have flinched when asked to do what Sam did on a regular basis, but he'd long grown accustomed to odd requests; in fact, so much so that the more mundane ones seemed to be the odd ones out. More than once, someone had remarked that Sandra was better suited to take a beating than he, simply because he wasn't any _fun_ anymore. He didn't put up a fight, whereas anyone with sense minded very much if someone were to try to very visibly bruise their chief means of making money. Sam, well? He'd long since passed caring.

 

 

And...that was it. Now the memories of last night came rushing back in a flood of warmth and wet, and sense-memories of salt tickling his nose and irritating the myriad small cuts on his back he'd sustained from a different client a few nights prior. 

 

 

Last night had been a bit like ballet, he decided. It certainly felt that way, anyway. A certain bit of choreography was always necessary when one worked underwater, and doubly so when one was bound up skin-tight in appropriate underwater attire. It was nothing like he'd been used to on scuba holidays back in 2006, of course, but then, what was? The ones he had at home---2006 home---didn't have strategically-placed flaps and openings and zips and holes and hoses, either. Some part of his mind supposed such contraptions must of course exist; one thing he'd learnt and learnt well since undertaking his change of career was that if he could imagine it, it had already been done. And more, on top of it.

 

 

As it was, they'd made do. There'd been some rejiggering of carefully-placed funnels, along with makeshift usage of some polythene tubing most probably obtained from a homebrew shop and sold there with intent for innocent beer experimentation. At times, Sam hadn't been sure whether or not the fact that blindfolding was very much an old-school technology was a blessing or a curse. 

 

 

Master Flipper had been most pleased when he'd learnt of Sam's prodigious lung capacity; all the better to serve with, and he could pretend he was alone. He had an alarming habit of calling Sam "Poseidon" on their occasional dalliances, but as could probably be gathered from the information at hand, Sam was well used to name calling by now, although he still wasn't at all sure about the odd, jelly-like sleeve he was meant to wear upon his cock at all times when encountering Master Flipper. It bore prongs and was meant to resemble a trident, and Sam was quite sure the Master had it made specially, simply because he couldn't remember ever _seeing_ a toy like this before---not in 2006, and certainly not in 1973, either. 

 

 

What Master Flipper liked most of all was playing a sort of hide-and-seek. If Sam was able to sneak up on him in the pool and catch him by surprise, Master Flipper was happiest of all. If, however, Sam's skills and stealth failed him, Master Flipper would exact revenge. Sam had got quite good at this game over the couple of months they'd been playing, which was why the blindfold had been introduced two sessions ago. Master Flipper didn't want to admit it, but Sam was quite sure he enjoyed the punishment part quite a bit more than being play-raped by Poseidon. When he allowed himself to follow this train of thought just a little longer, he wondered why that part was so hard to admit when obviously Master Flipper was admitting so much more to himself already, but it was always there that Sam stopped dead and forcibly thought about something else.

 

 

Last night hadn't been one of Sam's better performances. For himself, he wasn't terribly fond of being punished...but he was very, very good at taking it. Still, when given the choice, he liked to do what he could to avoid punishment. Last night, though, he'd been distracted. Kept imagining someone else's face instead of the Master's. Kept hearing someone else's voice. Kept superimposing thoughts that had no right to be there. And so, he lost his concentration...and he lost his stealth. 

 

 

"Are you even _trying_? You'll get doubly punished for that. On your knees. NOW." The Master commanded, and Sam obeyed, still blindfolded. He took a deep breath and ducked under the water as the Master popped his already straining cock out of the small opening in the front of his costume that had been provided just for this purpose. It had a tight, elasticated ring around it that was covered over with a soft, velvetty fabric so as to avoid irritation and increase the impressiveness of its wearer's swelling. Sam couldn't see this, of course, but he could feel it whenever he hit bottom and his nose rubbed up against the ring. He sucked, and gurgled, and tried not to let any saltwater in. Tried not to think about how difficult it was to hold his breath when the Master's head kept slamming into his uvula with no remorse. Tried to think about being home, in bed, asleep---because it was the happiest thought he could think of right now. Tried not to bite as he started to gag when the Master's hot seed spewed forth and down his throat in a sticky, globular mass. Failed.

 

 

"Oh, you'll pay for that now..." the Master said, very angrily. Only, of course, Sam was underwater and only heard mumbling in an angry tone going on somewhere above him.

 

 

In one motion, the Master reached down, grabbed Sam's head, yanked him away, and turned him around, shoving his head downward. Sam was too surprised to react, and so his body, which had been locked in kneeling position, suddenly floated up and back as his head went down. Indeed, had he been allowed to float to the top and emerge fully from the water this way, he would have met air arse-first.

 

 

Instead, the Master reached down, pried apart the special flap he'd had installed in Poseidon's wetsuit which he'd marked "All deliveries in rear," and thrust what remained of his hardness in as deep as it would go, all the while grasping at the base of his cock and trying to make it harder and stronger and pounding all of his frustration with being able to do neither into Sam. Sam, for his part, banged his head into the bottom of the pool with each thrust, quietly wishing he'd hit his head hard enough to knock himself unconscious. 

 

 

He winced as he remembered all this, and winced even more strongly when he realised that he was still, somehow, wearing the trident.


End file.
